


Simple Comforts

by sian1359



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Ancient Technology, Bathing/Washing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rain, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-18
Updated: 2006-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1804027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The little things that get you through a mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Comforts

**Author's Note:**

> Another old fic.
> 
> This story was supposed to be an offering for the 1Bdr, Ocn Vu zine, but I received it back from my beta a morning too late (my fault, not Bonny Magret's -- she's an absolute jewel and invaluable in helping). Of course, because I have sat on this for almost two months since it was betaed, that means I've also tinkered the hell out of it. The subsequent errors or confusion are totally mine.

*****

No matter whether in the Milky Way or Pegasus galaxy, John Sheppard recognized and understood certain constants. Like the ones McKay unceasingly lectured about in the scientist's constant need to prove his genius. Not that John really needed a lecture on those – or any further evidence to support McKay's theory. Whether he'd willingly admit it aloud or not John got that McKay was a genius. And John himself wasn't quite the typical semi-literate military grunt he'd gotten into the habit of projecting himself as being during his twelve plus years as a pilot in the United States Air Force; said piloting career that had started _after_ John had gotten his Masters in Mathematics. And he'd actually had made it up to Lt. Colonel before being busted down to Major for again just prior to being reassigned to McMurdo on Antarctica, although he supposed using that as evidence of his own intelligence could be used to argue the validity -- for either side.

 

No, the constants, the universal ones that defined the purity of math and physics, John now pretty much ignored overall (just like everyone else other than McKay and the rest of his scientific cohorts). Except on those occasions when they actually mattered – like when those constants _weren't_. Something that had become a surprisingly frequent happenstance since he'd stepped through the event horizon of the beyond-Einstein wormhole and suddenly found himself the ranking military officer of the entire Atlantean mission thanks to the death – to his _mercy_ killing – of his predecessor.

Sumner's death and his own increased responsibilities aside, John found he rather enjoyed some of the other anomalies: that not all leaders were idiots or political hacks; that some geeks could be fun despite their lack of social skills or arrogance; and the discovery that someone had actually managed to invent a single craft capable of aero, hydro and space flight that he got to fly – with his mind! – as well as his hands.

It wasn't the nature of one of the anomalies currently occupying John's mind, however; although he would have readily admitted -- even to McKay -- how much he was really wishing he had flown one of the puddle jumpers on this mission. He would even have happily accepted the scientist's smug _I-told-you-so_ as willing payback for all the times he'd ignored McKay's bellyaching about how much walking the team was usually expected to handle even when they did take the puddle-jumper through the Stargate to whatever new planet Elizabeth picked out for them to explore this time. But no puddle jumper – and no McKay. Which was an anomaly in and of itself, except it hadn't started out that way.

It was one of the other constants than his team usually there to protect his back –

(Well, really, there were two currently occupying his thoughts, but Murphy's was always in the back of John's mind no matter the mission, no matter the galaxy. And a couple more validated here so often that they'd fallen into a Murphy-similar subtext to always float somewhere on the periphery of his thoughts: primitive weapons could be just as effective as high-tech ones; every damn planet here in the Pegasus galaxy seemed comprised primarily of the aforethought primitive civilizations along with primeval forests; and that there seemed to be an overabundance of water – either in the form that covered most of the planet's surface as on Atlantis, or else by coming down in virtual sheets of rain to soak him thoroughly despite the alleged cover of the otherwise impenetrable fucking trees.)

Damn, but he was starting to sound like McKay within his own mind; bitching and distracting himself from the one thing that was luring him, that might be the only thing _enabling_ him to stay moving despite the circumstances of the last few hours and the sheer wretchedness of how he felt. Now (as it had also been during the Genii's attempt to invade Atlantis even as a hurricane had nearly scuttled and sent the city back to the bottom of the ocean again three scant months ago), John Sheppard had narrowed his focus to the only promise he could make to himself while on a mission.

That should he survive to return to whatever room he called home, he'd gift himself with a decadent, time-consuming, water-wasting, sinfully-hot, muscle-pounding, needle-pulsing shower.

Rain would _never_ be an adequate substitute.

Not even this storm, with its temperature not so far from the near-scalding he was currently craving, and its cascade of water that was actually stronger than the hardest flow he'd managed to achieve through the ancient, Ancients' plumbing.

Home … step. Shower … limp. Dry … step. Bed … limp.

To start with, John would be naked in his promised shower. Instead of being sodden clear through his chafing BDUs that included a vest and a pack that even on dry, normal missions could weigh close to twenty-five or thirty pounds. They probably now weighed more like fifty, thanks not only to the rain he'd had to put up with for something like five hours now, but also to the viscous mud that had once been simple soil and ground cover. He'd become covered by it, including in places where mud just didn't belong.

He'd also be _alone_ in his imagined shower. Able to shed his concern over his not-so-great skill of diplomacy along with his clothes … Yeah, he'd finally gotten the opportunity to actually _talk_ to the natives and clear up the little …misunderstanding that had led him to being separated from his team. John even supposed a trade agreement between Atlantis and Ha'akto's people might be possible some time in the future, which would please Elizabeth. But right now John only wanted to have to care about getting off the damn planet and going home, instead of continually worrying that he was making Ha'akto and his other escorts nervous again.

Fortunately for them all, it was only ten or so more minutes before the stargate came into sight. While still a couple of miles away from John's position, finally reaching the edge of the forest again meant that those who had first been his pursuers and had then become his guides would now be turning away. Meaning he could go back to verbally railing at his state without worrying about offending anyone's damn gods. (And who in the hell counted as a _blessing_ something that washed away entire villages in addition to the occasional mountainside or riverbed?) The threat the natives had first posed -- the threat that had led him to order Dr. McKay to escort his wounded second-in-command back to the 'gate while John lured the locals away -- had actually proven to be a case of mistaken identity. No doubt even Lt. Ford would eventually forgive the indigenes their policy of shooting first at anything that came through the 'gate. They, too, had discovered there really _were_ boogey-men that used the stargates too.

All thanks to one Major John Sheppard, Pilot US Air Force, Atlantis Military Commander, the Great White Wraith-Killer -- and Awakener.

John figured he'd probably deserved his current aches, but that shouldn't mean he couldn't gripe about them. It wasn't as if he'd blamed the local guys. Even if, maybe, most of the mud that covered him could be attributed to trying to evade their arrival misplaced attack. Probably the odd scratch, scrape or bruise he'd acquired could also be laid at their feet. And, okay, most definitely the overall fatigue that threatened his awareness and ability to soldier-on through the squelching, ankle-high mud was because he'd been chased over the span of a few hours and probably something like twenty miles.

His wrenched knee and broken wrist, however, had happened well after they'd caught up to him. After their discovery that his team hadn't been Wraiths, and after their paroxysm of apology and offerings of aid to help him find and make his way back to the 'gate's clearing. Indeed, a couple of Ha'akto's men hadn't been as lucky, when the log that they all had their turn crossing over a flooded stream had rolled. All too easily it could have been John's own body the tribe would be lucky to find sometime in the next day or two, assuming Ha'akto's shaman was correct as to when their god-blessed-and-delivered storm would finally stop.

Maybe a shower wouldn't really help him recover from _those_ injuries – might, in fact, be a bit difficult to manage because of them -- but the rain and the mud and the difficulty in just moving would be _gone_. He'd be able to pound out the bruises and muscle fatigue, to forget the sinking and falling and flailing.

To be clean, and eventually dry –

God, but a shower consisting of the right temperature and proper water pressure really _was_ a religious experience. And often times, he'd come to discover over too many years and too many missions, a shower felt even better than an orgasm.

 

Of course, that last reflection might be because John had only had _any_ orgasms since coming to Atlantis while in the shower and so his mind simply mixed the two. It was understandable, given they'd all been courtesy of his own hand, a few really nice memories gained while on Earth, and an active and healthy ability to fantasize.

After the incident with Chaya, McKay had accused him of being Kirk. If only McKay really knew. In truth John didn't even rate a Spock or McCoy with their handful of liaisons or, God-forbid a Scotty, Sulu or that-damn Chekov with their two. Hell, Mr. _Leslie_ had probably gotten laid more often on his missions than John had since arriving in the Pegasus galaxy! At least _Enterprise's_ missions had only been for five years (okay, more like thirty-five by the time the last movie was done), and they got to return to Earth many times during their adventures.

Fuck! Could his thoughts turn more geeky?

John's own tours of duty before Atlantis had included all the hot spots like Bosnia, Afghanistan and finally Antarctica -- none of which had offered him any prime candidates for starting relationships. Even so, he always before managed to find someone. Had found a couple of someones in truth. But they hadn't survived their own tours and, frankly, John wasn't sure he could live through that type of ending again. Especially with someone from the small group of friends he'd claimed here in Pegasus.

Their community was too small, was too insular and, from all appearances, the Atlantis mission was proving to be the one way trip that had first been feared. Not quite a year into it and so things could still change, yet the one time they thought they'd found a way home, had instead turned out to be xenophobic aliens creating a mental reality of Earth for them to be caught within until they wasted away and died. John had tripped early on to the trap, hadn't even gotten any _virtual_ sex, thanks to the fact that his 'Welcome Home' party consisted only of family, friends and lovers now dead.

(And hadn't the guilt fueling that part of his subconscious given him a couple of new things to talk about in his sessions with Kate Heightmeyer's couch!)

Returning to Earth for real? Considering that they hadn't yet found a ZPM to use in defending Atlantis from the Wraith, much less one or two more so that they could power the stargate and reconnect with Earth …

If (when, dammit!), that did happen, they would still have to worry that such a return could compromise Earth's location to the enemies they'd found here in Pegasus -- would have to prevent the Wraith from obtaining access to a feeding ground beyond even _Han Solo's_ imagination of greed and desires. And they would have to vet any new personnel joining the Atlantis mission even more rigorously, given all the dangers that would face them, which meant in most likelihood, the options for a relationship partner would be improving anytime in the future.

And wow, didn't he just get all cranky, gloomy -- and horny -- when he was tired, wet and achy?

At least the rain was finally beginning to let up.

Home, limp. Shower, step. Dry, limp. Bed, step.

Waiving goodbye to the last of his escort, John didn't bother looking back to watch them disappear among the trees. Ha'akto's people had already proven quite skilled in blending in, as it hadn't been until the first arrow had found its target in Ford's upper thigh that John's team had discovered they weren't alone on the planet. And quite useful in helping him walk, he discovered to his chagrin. With the most of two miles to cover before he reached the 'gate's dial-home-device, John suspected that the stick the pygmy-sized aliens had given him just wasn't going to cut it. Unfortunately not even their guilt for having attacked innocents was enough to get the natives to overcome their fear of the open ground before the gate.

John knew he could make it; he'd walked (limped and crawled) farther, the first time he'd popped that kneecap. Plus, there was the promise of his now near-mythical, magical, cure-all shower to keep him going, even if he had to _drag_ himself to the DHD.

Home, shower, dry, bed. For the next twenty-four or so hours, _those_ would be the only universal constants John planned to think about.

And maybe food.

****

How in the reality of two galaxies had John actually managed to _forget_ about Murphy?

"Major Sheppard," the welcoming voice of Peter Grodin came through the wormhole, an hour and a half later, "it's good to hear your voice."

"Yeah, well, it's good to be heard, Atlantis. McKay and Ford made it through okay, right?" It had only been after John discovered he was using the DHD as much to hold himself upright as he was to contact Atlantis, that he'd stop to consider that maybe his little trick of 'fox and hounds' hadn't exactly worked as planned. Now that he had the wherewithal to think of something other than survival and the goal awaiting him at the end of his journey, John realized that the precipitous arrival of the others back on Atlantis should have generated some sort of rescue team.

Unless Atlantis hadn't known the first team had run into trouble.

They'd not been due to check back in with Control until the sixth hour of their mission as John thought was doing now, but expected to be giving word as to whether they would be staying overnight for more explorations, or finishing up with the survey and returning home by dinner. The trouble had come sometime during the second hour. It shouldn't have taken McKay and Ford more than another couple of hours, however, to make it back to the gate, even with his 2IC's injury. But no puddle-jumper had materialized as John had finally dragged himself the last steps across the clearing, no strike or rescue team awaited him at a now secured gate. Not even any footprints, although the rain had also washed out any trace of his initial team's arrival – or any successful return.

John hadn't even thought to ask Ha'akto whether there had been any other hunting parties out, to send a couple of runners to check whether or not McKay and Ford had become --

"Ah, yes, they did, Major," Grodin interrupted and answered. "About eight hours ago. We were beginning to get worried about you."

_Beginning_ to get worried? Then what they hell had they been doing for the last eight (eight!) hours? Dammit, there should have been a team – he would have sent a team out even if he'd been incapable of going himself, and McKay _hadn't_ been injured when they'd parted --

"Lt. Ford is recovering nicely," Grodin derailed John's growing indignation. "And Dr. McKay's only injury was to his stamina and dignity," he added. The smile was obvious in Grodin's voice; apparently McKay wasn't currently in the Control room, nor even on radio for Grodin to have chanced such a remark.

"Came through the 'gate on his ass again you mean?" John chose to see the likely humor in the situation instead of dwelling on why McKay wasn't currently involved in helping John out of his situation – not doubt there was a valid reason Atlantis had left him on his own in what they only knew was a hostile situation for hours.

Except even imagining McKay stumbling out of the gate wasn't really funny. It was actually rather disturbing how often one of the off-world exploration teams came back through the stargate in distress -- either on the run from weapon's fire or with one person supporting another because of some sustained injury that had just as likely come from natural interference like landslides, earthquakes and falling trees as it was native intervention. His own team had the highest 'unfortunate incident' rate, but then they were also Atlantis' primary first-contact team and so were paving the way for follow-up investigations, or were the ones then recommending the blacklisting of a given 'gate address.

"Yes, and Kavanaugh happened to be in Control at the time," Grodin continued. "The ensuing fireworks actually may have caused more damage to Kavanaugh's face than the arrow did to Lt. Ford 's leg."

"Elizabeth allowed that?" Not that Dr. Weir normally stepped in between personal problems within the ranks as it were, even when punches were thrown. But if an actual fistfight between Kavanaugh and McKay had taken place _in_ the 'gate room, well, that was a little too public for what had been a private feud long before either scientist had come to Atlantis, for their Mission Commander to just ignore.

"Yes, well, Elizabeth knows better than to get involved between us, doesn't she, Major?" This not from Grodin, and John still believed McKay hadn't been there at the beginning of his and Grodin's conversation. He was glad to hear that McKay had finally come in response to his signal, however. Maybe McKay had been sitting with Ford, since Teyla was off with her people on the Mainland for a few more days, or had been getting a cast set from breaking his own hand, except that didn't generally take even five hours …

 

When John realized Elizabeth wasn't chiming in to defend herself and her actions – or reprimand McKay's current crowing, he gripped the DHD a little tighter. Bad enough that Grodin's small talk was uncharacteristic even if the last word Atlantis had had with regard to this planet hadn't been that the natives were hostile. No support team, no McKay there all along to bully everyone into getting John home, no Elizabeth, even if it was the middle of the night back on base--

"What's been going on over there, McKay?" Yeah, he'd not sent in an emergency code along with his identification code so they _knew_ he was no longer in any danger, but it had been a long fucking eight hours and John wanted to go _home_.

"That's hard to say, Major. Actually, it's not all that hard to say, but it certainly isn't pleasant to have to say it. Nor will it be to hear, I imagine --"

"Well, McKay," and John couldn't help the manner of his response as the long nine months of working together had pretty much conditioned them to go off at one another at the least provocation (although with none of the real hostility that existed between McKay and Kavanaugh), "suppose you actually _tell_ me. Then I can confirm or disprove your hypothesis about the degree of difficulty _you_ might be experiencing in having to deliver the news."

"Oh, right. Sorry, John."

Fuck, it was worse than John was already imagining. McKay actually did sound apologetic instead of simply returning John's sarcasm ten-fold. Plus he'd called him John instead of Major or Sheppard, and McKay never called him John unless one of the two of them were pretty close to dying.

"Aaah …" followed by an audible gulp. "Technically… ah, Atlantis is in lockdown again, John – Major. It appears that Bates' team brought something particularly virulent back with them, and over half of our people are on sick call, including Dr. Weir and maybe eighty percent of the folks who'd been on duty in the control room when the AG2 gated back in, not to mention a high number of Teyla's people on the Mainland have also become infected since Halling had gone with Bates to help the negotiations with the Kuskree's. It's not dangerous in a ' _we're-all-going-to-die_ ' manner, but there has been an overabundance of bodily fluids being spewed all over the base, and Beckett's folks haven't proven immune so it got rather out of hand rather quickly. At least most of the medical folk are still managing to work on the problem in between their offerings to the porcelain gods, but those of us who are still healthy are also being pressed into helping."

Oh the horror of it all for McKay, who pretty much ran screaming when even one person coughed or sneezed. John wasn't sure if he should feel sorrier for McKay in having to deal with such a wide-spread state of contagious chaos, or for the sick people that needed to rely on McKay for help.

"Yeah, that could explain the lack of a rescue party," John allowed, instead of throwing McKay's hypochondria back into the scientist's face. He swallowed his sigh and a groan as he struggled out of his pack and then slid to the ground using the DHD as a back stop. It sounded as if he might as well make himself comfortable here for a while, although comfort still wasn't the case after he dragged his pack under his knee to prop it up. Fortunately McKay was rushing on again and gave no evidence of hearing John's not-quite-as-silent second groan.

"Yes, well, about that. Obviously the marines don't really follow the rules of non-fraternization –"

Only Rodney would consider friendships as evidence of fraternization.

"—as there are maybe seven who aren't afflicted and so are trading off shifts of base security. And before you ask, even if the puddle-jumper bay wasn't currently off-limits, it, ah, seems that I'm the only one left standing who's actually had some training in flying them …"

"But because Elizabeth, Ford and even Bates are down, because I'm off-world and Beckett is probably off on the mainland _and_ sick, you're the one in charge and so are trapped there, with no one but Peter to commiserate with about the unfairness of it all. I get it, McKay." John shook his head. It was _always_ about McKay no matter whose guts were being puked out. Or whose kneecap had been dislocated.

"Major! It's not like Lt. Ford and I weren't confident that you could handle the primitives once we'd clued in to them being there. Right? You aren't really in any danger there, are you? Or hurt with an arrow or something worse stuck in you? Because, well, it seems that those like you with the natural ancient gene have been affected by the illness first – and worse -- and we're still not sure the control room is contaminate free –"

"Take a breath, Rodney." Despite undoubted overreaction on his part, it did sound as if McKay had enough to worry about without John adding to his stress. "The little guys actually turned out to be friendly once they got over the fact that we came through the gate."

Given McKay's escalating tones of concern, John didn't bother mentioning the trouble he'd experienced before or after the breakthrough with Ha'akto and his people. John's injuries weren't life threatening by any means, and not even all that painful now that he wasn't needing to move any longer. Since he hadn't gotten hurt because of the natives, he wasn't likely to sustain any more of them if he had to wait a bit longer.

That didn't mean he wouldn't grouse about it though, "It has, however, been raining non-stop since you and Ford ran home. So I'd like to have an idea of how long -- "

"Are we going to have to worry about you becoming hypothermic, Maj – Jo -- Major? It's night there, too, right? And getting colder? I know we were thinking tropical given the temperatures we first walked into, but it's not as if we recorded a full day/night rotation on the MALP before we stepped through the gate --"

Oops. Despite his attempt to shield him, panic was hitting McKay's voice full on. John was torn between amusement at McKay's now very obvious overreaction (and his determination to keep things light and not go the John route), and from a mix of emotions that might have included gratification for the scientist's distress. Despite evidence to the contrary, John knew that McKay really did care about others.

From the beginning John had begun to suspect that, for their resident super-genius, his tendency to live as the center of his own universe and view all circumstances only with respect as to how they could affect him wasn't exactly intentionally. Especially since it had recently become more apparent that McKay may have had good _reason_ to think he was the only one who mattered – that for a long time McKay might have been the _only_ one who had ever given a damn and appreciated just how much he could matter.

"Nothing to worry about, Rodney," John said easily, making sure to cover up his actual disgust over the heat and mugginess with the casual disregard about his personal comfort that usually drove McKay crazy during missions. "If anything, the temperature increased once the rain started falling. It kind of reminds me of the few times when the mountains bordering Afghanistan didn't break up the monsoons coming up from India and through Pakistan." Kinda like the Hell his father's generation had gone through in Viet Nam, save that the trees here were more akin to the coniferous ones littering the hillsides around Cheyenne Mountain or Seattle instead of the types found in a typical, tropical rainforest.

"I suppose even that would be somewhat uncomfortable."

 

John laughed to himself at the hint of acerbity back in McKay's tone for John having worried him. Uncomfortable.

Hundred degree heat and hundred percent humidity ranked a little higher on his personal scale of unpleasantness than _uncomfortable_. When it also included soggy power bars and MREs that would be even harder to choke down than usual since he had no protection here from the rain – not to mention bruises, breaks and bursitis...

But if a muggy night, watered down food and a little pain were the worst of what he'd have to deal with, deal John could. Especially once he had an idea of how much longer he'd be putting off his shower.

"It will be nice to get away from it, especially if it really starts up again," he agreed. "But I can cope, Rodney. It would be even nicer, though, to have an idea of how much longer being uncomfortable will last. A few more hours, a couple of days – a week? What are the city's quarantine protocols predicting?" Because, frankly, rain and discomfort aside, even if it was just helping clean up someone's puke, John wasn't happy being out of the action when his people needed him, the dressing down he'd received from Elizabeth after he'd broken the last city-imposed quarantine notwithstanding.

There was a pause, though whether because McKay was trying to figure out how to convey even more bad news or because the scientist was actually checking his facts before spouting them, John couldn't even hazard a guess. He certainly didn't expect the next sound that he heard would be the wormhole suddenly cutting off, and he had a minute of worry that somehow opening the gate for a radio transmission had violated the damn protocols. Until he brought a little logic to bear; given the redundancies they'd found in almost all of the Ancients' systems and protocols, no contact would have been allowed in the first place if an open wormhole somehow disrupted or exacerbated the quarantine.

There was little use in continuing to worry about it either, as John wouldn't be able to affect things on Atlantis as long as those left in charge couldn't – or wouldn't – let him through. No matter his own wishes, he couldn't disrupt the 'gate's shield like he did locks on the room he and Teyla had been contained within during the last outbreak to return to Atlantis. And should the absolute worst-possible scenario come true, with the virus getting completely out of control and taking a deadly turn --

Well, the natives were friendly, if awfully damn short. (And he hadn't seen any of their women yet.) But Atlantis wasn't the only 'gate address that John knew.

He'd give McKay some time to pull things together again, maybe try to reestablish contact in another hour and at least let somebody know that he was still there, still patiently (ha!) waiting.

John leaned his head back. Unfortunately, the let down of seeing his shower indefinitely delayed was sapping what little optimism and strength of will that the constant rain and his aches had not already stripped away. John had learned early on in his military career that it was possible to sleep under the worst conditions imaginable (although he'd never been able to train himself to drop off on command like some of the old-timers), had experienced it for himself a time or two beyond just observing just how much a body could survive. But he was beginning to sense sleep wasn't going to be a problem; that keeping awake on the other hand in order to make his next check-in might be, even as he was also fuzzily beginning to wonder if either circumstance really mattered.

Under normal circumstances, John would never allow himself to sleep while alone in unknown territory, but fighting against it, when it could realistically be a couple of days before he could return to Atlantis, was just as foolish. Back when he'd been Air Force Special Ops, fifty-two hours without sleep had been his personal best. But it wasn't a feat worth repeated, especially as he could remember all too well the circumstances that had led to that. Even the thirty plus hours during which he'd been fighting to keep the Genii from overtaking Atlantis was not something he felt the need to emulate -- or even recall, though those guilt-filled memories would be pretty good in keeping him awake. He knew how long he had crashed after both those incidents, after all, and really had no desire to put himself into that state again until he absolutely needed to.

True, the natives feared the 'gate and anything that came through it, perhaps with good reason. But really, the odds of the Wraith or some other predatory species coming through in the next few hours were absurdly long, and would only entice Murphy to even compute them. And while John could easily argue on _either_ side with regard to the luck permeating the various acts and actions that had led him first to the Pegasus galaxy and then here, he refused to believe he had so pissed off the Universe as to deserve –

Except the 'gate suddenly _was_ activating.

It took no conscious thought for him to roll off of his pack and burrow down into the mud, with only his P-90 and eyes raised just enough to see what was coming through.

And to discover that, god-damn, but he must be on the lowest rung of the karmic-shit ladder –

No Wraith, Genii or any other threat appeared -- unless he wanted to consider the amount of damage one slightly pasty, pudgy (though not nearly as much as he'd been nine months ago), and petulant Canadian science geek could engineer. Like say when an Air Force Major managed to score the last Three Musketeer bar on the base, or after said Major had accidentally stolen the last couple of swallows of real coffee.

(It wasn't as if John had known that had been the last of the coffee when he'd finished off McKay's cup, nor was it as if McKay hadn't been hoarding any number of candy bars in a variety of flavors – as preventative measures against McKay's hypoglycemia, of course.)

John let his shoulders and attention slump, able only to groan instead of voicing his … his … angry amazement? Or was that amazed anger? Angry appreciation? Appreciative amusement?

Out of everyone John had ever served with (or under), Dr. Rodney McKay was one of the top five – maybe even the lowest of the top three -- in making sure that if _he_ was suffering, he never suffered _alone_.

Yet McKay had also moved to number one in making sure someone else (like John) never _suffered_ alone.

****

Somehow in the last few, frenetic hours, Rodney had forgotten just how warm this planet had been as he and Ford had been fleeing from it. John has said a little rain had heated things up, but this level uncomfortableness was patently ridiculous – and maybe against the laws of nature although the closest Rodney had even come to setting foot in some death-provoking rain forest had all been here, in the Pegasus galaxy and the Ancients had already shown them that a few of the laws and constants, _weren't_. Damn, but even Area 51 wasn't this bad – hotter, maybe, but the average humidity had been maybe twenty-five percent, and there was always wind to offset the baking when you had to leave the air conditioning. His first breath out this other side of the wormhole felt as if he was inhaling heavy steam, however, and his shirt was instantly soaked through -- from sweat than from the falling rain.

"Goodness, Major, you look like shit!" he exclaimed when he finally -- barely – was able to spot Sheppard lying prone behind the DHD and in position to pick off someone coming through the gate. "Rest assured," he growled pretty much instinctively, to counter the instant rush of adrenalin that made him feel fairly nauseous, "that I do mean this literally as well as figuratively. You look like something my sister used squish into manshapes like mom's gingerbread when we were little, although she never had quite so much mud at her disposal despite leaving the garden hose on all night. And, hello? Why in the world didn't you warn me about just how hot it had gotten? _Uncomfortable?_ This is worse than an Inuit sweat-lodge or a Turkish bath."

"Been to a lot of those, McKay?" Sheppard snarled right back. Rifle clutched in his left hand a few inches above the mud, Sheppard started to rise by stiffening his other arm underneath him and shifting his weight, only to have his hand slip across the viscous mess he'd been wallowing in. For a moment, the Major disappeared back into the dark, almost bubbling mass and it was only as he began choking that Rodney could actually make out Sheppard's position since all of his uniform and skin was now coated.

Rodney hurried toward to help and him rolled over on his side, using first his hands and then his sleeve to wipe away as much of the mud as he could from John's eyes and nose. Freeing his canteen, Rodney then poured a stream of water across his face as the Major coughed and spit.

In some ways it was worse to watch than when Carson had given into the pukes five or so hours ago. At least Carson had been coughing out the contaminants. At this moment Rodney could only imagine what sort of crap John had just ingested.

Unfortunately as the mud covered John so completely, Rodney couldn't tell if there had also been blood anywhere at sometime that might now be obscured or, just as likely, washed away if it had really been raining as long as the Major had bitched about. He could ask, but if Sheppard really had sustained any injury during his rear action to give Ford and him a chance to get away, he'd already lied about it once.

"Here," Rodney offered what was left in the canteen as he maneuvered Sheppard up into a sitting position. Rodney tried to ignore the flutter in the pit of his stomach when Sheppard ignored the water and just closed his eyes before leaning wearily against the DHD. The feeling of unease that had hit Rodney first in the control room and had led him here, instead of letting Sheppard wait alone until it was deemed safe enough to return to Atlantis, increased when the Major then handed over his P-90 before finally reaching for the canteen. It was true that John was leaning a shoulder against the DHD and so had restricted his ability to move, but he _never_ gave up his weapon so readily. He wore his handgun while walking around Atlantis, dammit!

Obviously he _had_ done something to himself. "What have you done to your arm?"

More coughing, but at least Sheppard wasn't puking out mud and bile any longer. "It's okay, Rodney," he rasped. "I've fallen a couple of times and maybe it's a little swollen, but…"

The trailing off and shrug was pretty much SOP, which meant that it was undoubtedly more than just a _little_ swollen. "Let me see it."

"It'll keep until we get back," Rodney was waived off. "Which will be when, exactly?" Sheppard then asked with an audible edge despite the hoarseness. "And why are you even here, McKay? I thought you were indispensable back in Atlantis? Large and in charge with Elizabeth sick, taking your shot to show everyone --"

"I am indispensable everywhere I choose to be, Major," Rodney frowned and waived offhandedly. "And, actually, _you_ said I had taken charge, not me. Peter is perfectly capable in handling the current crisis, since all that's really left to do in Atlantis is to catch the disease—

The Major was actually going so far as to try to put his hand inside the opening of his vest instead of letting Rodney check it over. "Dammit, John! There aren't any of your groupies or space bimbos around to appreciate your military stoicism. Give me your fucking wrist!"

"Fraternizing with the _fucking_ marines a bit yourself, Rodney?"

Rodney simply leveled one of his milder glares; the ability to swear did not belong only to the military. Sheppard, of course, capitulated as easily as Kavanaugh had a few hours earlier.

He let Rodney lift his arm. Mud obscured any evidence of swelling or injury and so Rodney grasped fingers and elbow firmly but gently, and pulled just as carefully to get the Major to extend it.

It took most of a minute for the rain to wash away enough of the mud so that Rodney could see that what he'd thought was the rest Sheppard's uniform was actually a field dressing that had become stained the same color of gray as Sheppard's BDUs, wrapped around a couple of pieces of dark wood, and that Sheppard's shirt sleeve had been cut off just below the elbow.

Sprained then, or more likely broken, given how protective the Major was being. Along with his initial hesitation in letting Rodney see to it.

"This didn't once have an arrow through it?" he couldn't help but suspect.

"No arrow holes anywhere, McKay," Sheppard sighed with a combination of what sounded like exasperation and exhaustion. "I already admitted it, I fell."

"You admitted that you fell _several_ times," Rodney crowed a little bit, now that he could see John had received basic aid. Usually Rodney was the one who ended up in a face plant or down on his ass during their missions, not Major John Sheppard.

"You might have noticed that all of that nice clay-filled dirt you'd been remarking on when we first got here, " Sheppard gestured with his other hand toward the indentations that still bore a vague resemblance to his body shape, "turns into something that would give the La Brea Tar Pits a run for their money had it become more than a few inches deep. It's hard to walk in."

"Never been there, Major, sorry," Rodney said dismissively as he removed John's canteen, shaking it to see that it wasn't completely empty then went ahead and poured the rest of it out over Sheppard's fingers so that he could see their color. "Too much of LA surrounds La Brea, and the site is generally infested by families and children thanks to the kitsch of Disney-like creatures talking about how horrible extinction was, instead of keeping the find as something actually worth studying."

Rodney suspected it wasn't the actual nature of his litany that forced the half smile and chuff of laughter, but at the moment he was content enough that the Major was laughing at all, even if it was _at_ him. As long as things stayed relatively normal between them, Sheppard couldn't be _too_ badly injured. Rodney considered for just a moment, but then refrained from making him bend his fingers, however, in some form of retaliation. It appeared that circulation hadn't been shut down completely by either the break or the binding yet and so there was no reason to caused him any additional – physical -- pain.

"What else then, Major?"

Sheppard tilted his head and widened his eyes, although they probably showed more weariness than innocence at the question. But it wasn't as if Rodney wasn't expecting evasion -- or that the put upon air of confusion was at all convincing. He'd known something was wrong just in hearing the tail end of John's conversation with Peter. And Rodney didn't think that whatever had triggered his bull-shit meter (and conscience) was only a broken wrist and inconvenience because of a little heat and rain.

Entirely too many months spent with one another, that could be the only explanation.

Rodney _never_ bothered to get to know any of his other co-workers this well. Nor had they him, and it had been the same with his family, even his sister Jeanne. Maybe his next door neighbor could have been called a friend, but then, the two of them had practically shared custody of Rodney's cat ever since he hadn't been able to take Fenyman with him when he'd been assigned to that two year stint in Russia.

After spending these last nine months with one United States Air Force Major with the all-too-entirely appropriate name of John _Sheppard_ , Dr. Rodney McKay had learned several things from the constant exposure. Although he'd admit to no one but himself that his study of the other man (which he might also admit only to himself had become something more akin to an obsession -- much like what he'd dived into after learning about the Stargate program and the existence of naquadah and its use more or less as a clean power source as well as a weapon beyond any of the Earth's concepts of mass destruction), Rodney now knew that despite his dismissal of the other as a 'Maverick' Top Gun, another gun-ho O'Neill clone or even worse, another Captain Kirk (and he'd actually called John Kirk to his face after the shameful encounter with the exiled Ancient who called herself Chaya), John Sheppard was really more like the offspring of Farscape's John Crichton and Star War's Han Solo, with a little bit of both the young and old Obi-Wan Kenobi thrown into the mix.

Sheppard certainly had old Ben's ability to prevaricate under the worst and best of circumstances, young Obi-Wan's brashness that masked insecurities of not being able to measure up, Solo's balls-to-the-walls bravado and, most of all, John Crichton's ability to adapt in the face of the absurd. Unfortunately, Rodney wasn't yet certain where the Major's willingness to endanger himself came from. Every science fiction hero he'd ever watched or read was really more about the payoff -- the payoff you could sleep with or spend -- in order to sleep with the heroine or bimbo _de jour_. Martyrdom and self-sacrifice? Not so much.

 

In their nine months, it had become too easy for Rodney to forget that, before flying General O'Neill out from McMurdo to the Ancient's abandoned base out in the middle of the barren ice fields of Antarctica, the Major's only experience with alien planets and lifeforms had come from watching those types of television shows and movies that his personality and brand of heroism were constantly being compared to. Sheppard had known nothing of the Goa'uld -- or the Ancients. The only wars he knew that humans were involved in were those in which humanity preyed on itself, like Bosnia, Afghanistan and Iraq.

Yet sometimes it was all too obvious that Sheppard had never imagined -- could never have imagined -- that somewhere back in the mists of time, one or more of the non-mythical Ancients of fabled Atlantis had diddled in his family tree, giving him a heritage and gift that was pretty much the envy of every one on the Atlantis expedition. Encoded within his DNA was the gene that allowed Sheppard to interact with the fantastic, wondrous and quite often almost impossible to believe (or understand) technology that had been discovered and then abandoned by his Atlantean ancestors tens of thousands of years ago. Except more often than not, Sheppard publicly called that gene a curse -- at least within Rodney's hearing; complaining almost as much as Beckett when being asked to participate in some of the research that had been the only damn reason Elizabeth had wanted the Major on the mission in the first place!

Of course, that wasn't exactly the case now; Rodney didn't even want to imagine what being on Atlantis would be like if Sheppard hadn't come along – or if Colonial Sumner had survived and was still heading up the military contingent. He wasn't even really jealous of Sheppard gene-granted abilities, since he had his own version that, while still not at parity between them, allowed Rodney to at least stay on the same playing field.

No, despite the gene also being something that allowed _Sheppard_ to simply think things 'on' (and how unfair was that not to be included with the artificial package?), like the lights all over Atlantis, the internal transports and his beloved puddle-jumpers, Rodney was now more envious in how Sheppard had simply taken all of these amazing changes and his ability in his stride. Just as he had that travel between galaxies was even possible and that there were reasons to do so. Or that aliens really were after human brains (well, at least souls); and that while vampires could be killed with a stake, many, many bullets were a better choice and yet even then, all that did was serve to piss off all the rest of the techno-euro-trash-wannabee life-suckers.

Rodney had known about the possibilities for years (the evidence was just too compelling for there not to be other life out there, even that some of it had to be intelligent), had then had the chance to actually participate in the research and the discoveries and then the contacts. Yet when it had actually come right down to it, when Rodney had taken the plunge and agreed to put all of his theoretical and practical genius to use and step through to another galaxy, he'd been the first one wanting to deny it all and go back home (once he actually had the opportunity to think of anything other than panic and their imminent destruction), while the man for whom all of this had been just more elaborate special effects stepped into the leading role with no hint of trouble.

"Oh, do get over yourself, Major," Rodney scolded once he realized he'd let his mind wander and forced himself to snap back to the matter at hand. "For you to have slipped or tripped and landed hard enough to have broken your wrist, there has to be more damage. So let me have it. Then I can figure out --"

"There's nothing to figure out, genius," Sheppard came right back with a rising level of heat that only told Rodney that he was on the right track. He could still count the number of times on two hands that he'd seen Sheppard really angry, and damn if all but maybe two of those had been directed against him. But this wasn't really the same stuff at all.

"I might have fallen a time or two, but I did also manage to take care of myself for the last _eight_ of those hours despite those falls, the rain, and the lack of any assistance from Atlantis before I was revisited by the Great McKay. So stop fussing and just tell me when we can get the fuck out of here!"

"Who's spending too much time with Marines, Major?" Rodney raised his brow, although the murkiness of the storm and falling night probably hid how well he'd perfected the technique. "I was beginning to wonder if you even knew the words that pepper the typical grunt's every other -- No, that wasn't me changing the subject or ignoring your question!" he veered sharply before he could maybe add a number ten to the truly angry moments.

"I left Peter and Zelenka working on codifying the protocols, and one of them should be calling us back any minute now with the all clear. _I_ had almost gotten it all worked out before I left, of course, and so I'm sure that --"

"Worked what out McKay?" Sheppard interrupted, but a little more with the questioning instead of the ordering. "Just how bad is it, and why did Atlantis allow gate travel if it's locked down in quarantine?"

"Funny thing, that." At the Major's glower, Rodney tightened his grip on the hand he still held and positioned himself more comfortably sitting Indian-style, then tugged carefully to get Sheppard to lean more against him instead of the unyielding DHD.

"It's not what you're thinking, John. I wasn't lying or even exaggerating what I've already told you. Apparently Atlantis can recognize the degree of danger in airborne toxins and pathogens. All of the doors aren't actually locked like before, but there has been an alert if you will, I suppose you'd call it a yellow one in your Star Trek parlance," he offered airily, but maybe Trek references weren't the best thing right now.

"Basically anyone who has been infected has no access to any vital areas -- well except Medical, of course. The puddle-jumper bay is out of bounds totally because that's how Bates -- well, really Halling -- brought the disease back. Some sort of decontamination is underway there. Low intensity blue lights, a forcefield in addition to lockout codes -- it's really quite ingenious of the Ancients.

"It might even have interesting applications if we can figure out how to trigger it at our convenience, plus, of course, assuming such a system is at least also in other areas or portable," Rodney expounded, all to easily remember the first glow of excitement when he and Radek had figured out what they were dealing with. "And had we the power to use it, of course," he then frowned. "Think about it. If we'd had knowledge of forcefields and the other types of safeguards when Koyla and his goons tried to --"

Sheppard _had_ finally deigned to relax against him -- until his last words. Rodney paused at the Major's reflexive stiffening, a blush creeping up on his face. He been speaking too fast he knew – letting his mouth run away with the thoughts even he could barely track. He always did that when nervous or excited. As well as offer too much information, and perhaps not in so coherent a fashion or as another might. But who knew which part of what had happened would be the bit that caught at Sheppard's imagination? Sometimes Rodney just _knew_ there was a closeted geek locked inside the military's no-quite-so tin soldier, and he just _had_ to find the right key … Only, of course, Sheppard would hear _Genii_ and just shut down and tense up, even if achieving parade rest was an impossibility for him at the moment …

"Yes, well, I'm sure you can imagine as well as I, how useful something like that might be once it's under our control," Rodney shrugged with a forced casualness and tried to relax his own body since he really didn't have any good memories of the Genii either. "Anyway, most of the Gate room has also been partition off by forcefields including the overlook and Elizabeth's office – but then that's where she heaved –"

Another look, but he really wasn't getting off the track.

"Fine," he bit off. "We still have access to the stargate and a couple of the control consoles, plus one or two niches for your commandos to stand guard in. Oh, and a section of wall has opened up that has never shown the ability to do that before. I was beginning to investigate what was beyond there with a couple of the Marines who could still manage to hold onto their weapons, I think Stackhouse was one of them, but then you called in and Peter contacted me and--" Rodney shrugged again. "Once Zelenka tells Peter it's safe, we'll go back."

"What?" he then asked self-consciously when Sheppard still didn't say anything, when he only looked. Then offered one of his maiden-devouring smiles.

"Stop thinking of how quiet your last few hours were!" Rodney blushed again, though his growing discomfort had little to do with actual embarrassment and all to do with how his body was reacting to such an expression turned on him. "I could have left you alone with the Pegasus galaxy's version of aboriginal pygmies and your mud baths, you know," he huffed, because there was a heck of a lot of amusement being directed his way again and yeah, it was better than the worry or the pain, but he did _not_ talk too much --

 

The smiled turned into something more like a naughty boy grin, which wasn't any better for Rodney's frame of mind – or the state of his body. Damn, but why couldn't the rain be _cold_?

"I really appreciate that in your decision to escape the plague-ridden corridors, you might have brought it along with you so I wouldn't be missing out, McKay. Plus you being here will help keep me awake. And we can share my limited food supply since you didn't bring your own pack. But you'll have to be the one to gather up more water since you've emptied out both of our canteens --"

"Hello, rain? Just hold the damn thing out and it will fill up. Plus, I never said the word plague, not even to Carson," Rodney stoutly defended himself. Far be it for Sheppard to actually say thank you, but Rodney also knew the other's complaints were just a way of keeping the conversation going, since the Major had begun to relax against him again.

"I have actually seen the ravages caused by plague," he continued. "I assure you, I would never mistake what's going through Atlantis right now for that although Bate's skin color was turning a bit blue."

Which wasn't so funny, and Rodney didn't really want to think about what complications his hastily considered trip back through the wormhole might cause. He wasn't about to admit that he hadn't thought things through, choosing instead to believe that the 'gate wouldn't have allowed his passage if he could infect Sheppard.

The limited amount of food might be a problem, though. There were always the local natives, but Rodney wasn't looking forward to meeting them again, even if they had turned out to be friendly. Inhabitants with little to no technology and the tendency to shoot first didn't rate even an empty star in Rodney's mental travel book of 'Places to Stay' in the Pegasus galaxy.

"I was wondering, McKay. In all of your experiments, have you ever conducted a study of your air intake when you talk?" Sheppard suddenly asked. "You certainly don't take as many breaths as normal people do, but since your mouth is almost always open, I imagine you're compensating --"

"Oh, ha ha, Major. You _wish_ you had my lung capacity --"

"Capacity obviously doesn't equate to stamina in your case, McKay," Sheppard shot back, but he had to work at it. His head began to nod until he finally gave in and leaned it directly against Rodney's shoulder. "As you constantly d-demonstrate when we're on the run back to the g-gate --"

"And whose fault is it that we're running all the time?" Rodney interrupted right back. He wasn't really worried; he'd be exhausted too if he'd been on the move for eight hours – hell, he'd be hypoglycemic. But he was pretty sure that the Major was simply tired and not actually trying not to pass out.

"Maybe if you could stop ogling the daughters and pissing off the native fathers we could actually take in the sights of a planet and what its civilization has to offer. But, of course, you'd loose your first contact merit badge if you did that, wouldn't you?" he warmed up to one of his favorite rants even as he snaked a hand around John's shoulder to hold him more steady. "Would it kill you to actually use the puddle-jumper to get us _to_ those natives sometimes instead of just through the gate, Major? Even Ford knows you make us walk so far as some sort of payback for something you had to do when you were his rank. But really, if you keep doling out the same punishments, all you are doing is perpetuating the inherent bullying that is the backbone of the American Military Complex --"

"Bite me, McKay," and at least this generated a little more strength in Sheppard's voice, though he wasn't making any effort to escape from Rodney's … hug. "Ford and Teyla both appreciate the chance to stretch their muscles after being spit out of the gate, and if you would just acknowledge that you should be getting more exercise than the mandatory PT --"

The gate behind them began to activate. The two of them rolled apart as if they'd been teamed together for years although the mud hampered their ability to separate into two _widely_ dispersed targets. As Rodney looked up from his side of the DHD, he realized he still had the Major's P-90 in his hands and, instead of tossing it back, he took the ready position. From the corner of his eye he saw that Sheppard had his thigh-holstered 9mm out. And that it wasn't shaking near as much as the P-90 was.

Smooth, fucking bastard.

"We have finished investigating new section, Rodney," Radek Zelenka's accented voice abruptly echoed in both of their earpieces. "Set of forcefields in front of gate have established negative atmosphere corridor that leads directly to decontamination chamber and adjunct medical bay. Or maybe is _primary_ medical area, since Dr. Carson just picked space large enough to set up beds and lots of racks for supplies --"

"Yes, yes, Radek, John and I have both had reason to be acquainted with Carson's medical facility, we don't need it described or told the reasons Carson picked that particular room for it," Rodney cut the Czech off impatiently. "Are we clear to return to Atlantis or not?"

Zelenka muttered something off-mike that had someone else laughing in the background. When Peter Grodin's voice took over, Rodney was sure the laughter had been his.

"Shutting down our side and preparing for your return, gentlemen."

Words were then actions, and the gate shut down. Rodney scrambled to his feet and began punching in Atlantis' code except for the last chevron, then reached down to help the Major up, which didn't go quite as smoothly as he'd hoped, but he managed to keep from letting Sheppard pull them both back down.

"You never did answer me about other injuries, did you, Major?" he frowned as he locked in the final symbol and transmitted his IDC. "What else did you break and you do realize that, by sitting in the mud for even an hour, whether the bone broke through skin or not, you have likely --"

"Nothing else is broken," the Major sighed and pushed Rodney toward the event horizon, bobbling a step or two after before he allowed Rodney to step back to steady him, and then lead them both through the wormhole and back to home.

"I just wrenched my knee," Sheppard admitted once they were popped back out into the very welcome surroundings of the Atlantean gate room. At some point Rodney would worry about all of the extra power Atlantis had to be utilizing to set up the on-going decontamination and forcefields, but now it simply meant he could get the two of them through a modified set of return procedures without intentionally exposing Sheppard to the Super Germ.

"It's an old injury that sometimes acts up."

"Oh, that's convenient," Rodney remarked as the previously invisible forcefields began to brighten and take on a layer of color after he and Sheppard bumped into them a couple of times. It was much easier to wonder about the fields, about whether they always sprung up in a set pattern that the Ancient's had known, but had still thought to accommodate their not-so-knowledgeable visitors by keying them to be modified, than it was to wonder if that 'old injury' was an sports wound, or a _war_ wound?

Rodney had seen some of John's scars before, though he'd always made a point of not looking the few times they'd needed to disrobe around one another after he'd realized his attraction. Getting involved with someone from the military was always bad news (there were always hidden pitfalls of vulnerabilities in addition to their rigid reliance and compliance to _rules_ ) – even worse if it was a _close_ team member because that brought out your own vulnerabilities. And the novelty of having a _friend_ was almost good enough for Rodney anyway.

Or, it _had_ been.

But even Sheppard seemed interested in these new aspects that Atlantis was revealing to them and not the ones Rodney might be revealing. He'd reached out to touch the field with the hand not hanging over Rodney's shoulder.

Of course the color and brightness changed on his whim.

At least it was a little easier on the eyes than the initial lens flares.

Peter, Radek and the rest of the control room was blocked by the now-smoky walls. They were led instead into a room that lit up at their arrival in a much more subdued blue than the gene-activated aqua and greens of the regular light panels all over Atlantis, or even the vibrant blues spreading out from the control chairs. It wasn't the a medical bay as Zelenka had said. Instead it had more the feeling of a waiting room – smallish, contained, and with none of the windows the otherwise permeated almost all of the rooms they'd been able to explore (even if the windows only showed another room or corridor), and no other door.

Waiting room? No, wait, Radek had also mentioned decontamination even if the coloring was all wrong for the sweeps that had started in the puddle jumper bay and Elizabeth's office.

Decontamination as part of the protocols when returning from the 'gate made a hell of a lot more sense than their own obviously inefficient methods of any off-world team just reporting to medical for a check-up every trip back. While the majority of the sentient lifeforms in the Pegasus galaxy appeared to be of human ancestry and so most of the diseases should just be variants on their Earth-based ones, in their own galaxy there were true aliens, such as the Asgard, Nox and Goa'uld. It was likely something similar lived – or had lived – here too, beyond all of the human stock offshoots …and the Wraith.

Even without the potential for bringing back _alien_ contaminants every time someone went through the wormhole (and discounting the whole plague thing that had endangered and killed off so many of the Ancients themselves), there was the virus Bate's team had run into – or humanity's own Spanish flu pandemic that back in 1918 and 1919 had managed to infect twenty percent of the then-current world's population and kill 1% of those afflicted. For something similar to happen here, if it's vectors included John, Elizabeth, himself or, God!, Carson -- As indispensable to Atlantis' continued survival as Rodney knew himself to be, situations like today proved that Carson, as their Chief Physician as well as their top medical researcher, might just be the most valuable one of them all.

Convenient that some form of medical examination/decontamination room was here right off the gate room. Logical even and, if Rodney hadn't been so concerned about them all drowning or being crushed when Atlantis' shields failed upon their arrival (while the city had still been housed at the bottom of the ocean that now surrounded them), he would have extrapolated its likelihood of existence and found it well before now.

Except that even beyond those first power disasters, simple day to day living was nearly as calamitous, and their whole mission could still collapse were Rodney not constantly finding new ways to extend their limited, failing power systems. He just didn't have the _time_ to find hidden rooms, not while also figuring out how to work all the devices they were discovering and fixing the connections between Earth and Atlantis technology, all while still providing his invaluable presence on most of Sheppard's first contact missions.

No doubt in the Ancients' time, the Pegasus galaxy was all one great utopia of peace, love and brotherhood. Except most of their happy, client worlds contained humanity, and wow, who needed the Wraith or the Goa'uld to fuck them over when humans were just as practiced and even more dedicated in doing it to themselves --

A weird tingling across his body brought Rodney's attention back to the Ancients' technology at hand. "What? Oh, well, that's just cool. I always knew the concept was sound -- get it, Major, sound?"

But John didn't look anywhere near as curious or pleased as Rodney to discover that this first new room not only decontaminated them apparently, but _cleaned_ them, just like something out of Star Trek. Rodney felt the inaudible sonic waves tingle over him several times, no doubt because it took several passes to manage to breakdown and eliminate all of the mud the two of them had accumulated.

"Whatever is the matter, Major? We're not only clean, but dry in what, one or two minutes? How can you be upset about that? It's efficient and we didn't even have to remove our clothes."

Thankfully, because while Rodney certainly took a perverse pleasure in _not_ sneaking glances now and again (when circumstances during or after mission necessitated it, of course), he'd been feeling slightly emboldened by the Maj -- no, not Major. Military vulnerabilities were all just doubts and nightmares. This was John, a _friend_ , who wasn't afraid of Rodney finding out he wasn't Rambo.

"I wanted a shower," came the petulant reply practically in his ear since he was more or less holding John upright at this point. "Dammit, I promised myself a shower! Every fucking step of that twenty miles -- "

Rodney shifted his grip from John's elbow to around his waist. John was trembling, had been trembling -- from pain, from exhaustion, but now he was also clearly agitated. Maybe it wasn't Rodney's fault, but he couldn't help but feel a little guilty.

"John, Radek said there is actually a medical bay here too." Even as Rodney spoke, a new opening was forming to the side of them and the tingling from the sonics finally stopped. "We're obviously supposed to move on."

It would be nice if one of Carson's people would be awaiting them, but since they hadn't known in advance that this whole set-up was here off the gate room (and most of Carson's people were probably too infected to be able to enter into the gateroom in the first place had Radek thought to call one down), Rodney was just going to have to be the Johnny-on-the-spot here.

He was used to dealing with an injured John; the man's willingness to sacrifice himself was already legendary and, while those circumstances always made Rodney's blood pressure go through the roof, they also usually involved split-second decision making or panicked running or shooting lots and lots of bullets. But having John also _hurt_ did all sorts of weird things to Rodney's thought processes.

Rodney wasn't sure when his obsession in trying to figure Major John Sheppard out had become something other than the game he _always_ played with whatever military or political mind that invariably had ended up in charge of Rodney's future by limiting Rodney's access to research. It was a control thing (or lack thereof) with Rodney, as well as an amusing intellectual pursuit. He _knew_ that. But John didn't really control his future. If anyone on base did, that would be Elizabeth.

Or the Wraith, by the threat they posed to Rodney's continued existence.

No, John didn't control Rodney's future … he _protected_ it. Something not even Rodney's parents had tried to do. And so, Rodney feared, there was something like love there in his own mind, alongside the obsession that had become intertwined by an all-too-familiar, infuriating and distracting lust.

Putting past failures aside, maybe it was time to finally do something about that.

*****

John knew it wasn't McKay's fault that he wasn't going to get his shower. But that didn't stop him from wanting to bitch the other man out, and he knew that if he wasn't relying quite so much on the other to help him move -- or stand ...

"Oh, hey, now this really _is_ cool," he could finally agree with McKay.

It was like his first time using the puddle-jumper all over again; when John simply thought of what he needed in order to navigate and then find the Wraith's ship and his people that they'd taken, and the ship's systems had responded with views, plots -- detectors. He'd been thinking – praying – shower, and …

 

To everyone's relief upon their first arrival, finding the various _plumbing_ facilities that the Ancients had used had been easy enough, and what they'd found inside had been recognizable. The bathing rooms all followed the same set-up whether they were the private, single or doubles that adjoined the various rooms the group had claimed for sleeping chambers, or one of several public and semi-public baths intended for use by larger groups like for dormitories or locker rooms (or those one or two rooms that were more something out of ancient Rome or ancient and modern Japan). A half walled changing area first, then the bathing fixtures (shower or sunken tub or both), and the commode(s) and sink(s) beyond that.

John and McKay had found (been led into?) one of the semi-public bathing rooms that could accommodate three or four people at once. Like a patient, a doctor and one or more nurses.

Maybe he wasn't the only one to recognize the therapeutic benefits of a long, hot shower.

The genuine smile that graced McKay's face on his behalf went a long way toward having John feel more charitable about the whole _stuck-with-McKay-in-enclosed-chambers_ situation. When the scientist began assisting him in removing his clothes, John saw that too as being along the lines of keeping him on his feet and moving -- as a genuine desire to help. Except McKay then gently pushed him down to sit on the ledge next to the cubby-hole now holding John's clothes, and began removing his own.

"McKay?" No, that wasn't a squeak, it was just his voice cracking because he really hadn't used it all the much over the last day and his throat still hurt like a son of a bitch from swallowing and then hacking up all that mud.

"Yes, Major, I know that mine is the body of a god, but don't get your frilly knickers in a twist and be embarrassed to stand alongside me. Obviously you're going to need to be able to stand up in your shower long enough to accomplish your little fetish, and since the Ancient's have so thoughtfully cleaned my clothes for me, I'm not going to trouble myself with unnecessary laundry detail just so I can play doctor t -- for you.

John didn't have to even think to respond, which was probably pretty good since his brain was ready to shut down now that the whole 'survival and go home' aspects had been satisfied and most of McKay's words were just white noise. "I thought you were trying to blind me, actually," he rasped. "I know Canadian and Russian winters are long and now you have too many cool things in your lab to play with, but, jeez, McKay. Sun, ever?"

"First off, I do not play with the things in my lab. That is _your_ purview, and you generally do so when it is most disruptive to the _research_ I am trying to conduct."

John grinned at how puffed up McKay had gotten. He should have looked downright silly since he was now wearing only his affronted dignity. But lack of tanning aside, the walks he'd forced McKay to endure had done the scientist a world of good because there really was some muscle definition there and --

Please, God, he was not just checking Rodney McKay out!

"Secondly, Major, I get more than enough vitamin D through supplements _and_ all of the exposure I could ever need, thanks to your insistence on walking everywhere we go while exploring planets," the rant continued even as McKay was pulling John back to his feet. "Thirdly, skin cancer? Those winters and summers in Canada and Russia _and_ Antarctica, thank you very much, involve a significantly more virulent sun than your puny little Californian or Floridian or whatever other lackluster American city you called home when not being exiled to the likes of McMurdo --"

"It was Seattle."

"Seattle, really?" McKay seemed quite surprised and let his rant be derailed. "Why that's practically part of Canada what with that whole Seacover sprawl," he beamed with a little bounce in his step as they moved into the actual shower area. "How can you be so down on hockey and think your American football is the bomb, then, Major? It's not like the Seahawks have won anything greater than their divisional playoff."

"No one uses 'the bomb' anymore, Rodney," John shook his head then had to steady himself against McKay's shoulder when this made his world spin just a little. "If you'd paid any sort of attention to my tapes," he forced out because if he just stopped talking then, he'd probably have another McKay panic attack on his hands and he really had quite enough to deal with on his own without having to also care for someone else. "If you ever paid attention to anything but your own voice," he tried again with a little of the vinegar he knew McKay would be looking for, "you'd know it's not because of the Seahawks or any of the professional teams that makes football superior to hockey. It's all about U Dub, the Washington Huskies, who have made it into fourteen Rose Bowls and won seven and a half of them _without_ the need of a Hail Mary although they've have their share of spectacular players. Players who do it for the love of the game instead of the money, and who have never gone out on strike!"

"Oh, go soak your head, Major!" which, because of McKay's artificial gene transfer, became reality without John expecting it, no doubt McKay's plan all along. John sputtered for a few seconds under the sudden stream of water, but the nice thing about a gene-activated shower was that the water came out the right temperature, right away.

Even warm water felt good down his throat. That it beat against stiff and aching muscles -- he simply stood there and soaked it in.

He swallowed another couple of mouthfuls and then bent his head forward so that the spray landed against his neck, willing the temperature and the intensity to increase a bit more, although not as high as he might have gone were he alone. McKay, after all, could have blasted him with cold water when the scientist had pulled his little trick, but had somehow managed to restrain himself and so deserved John cutting him a break in return.

Thoughts of just this had been what had kept John going. Since the Ancients had installed jets in more than just the standard above-the-head position, John didn't even have to move much for his whole body to be pounded. The feel of a rough cloth and lather (shouldn't that have dried out after ten thousand years of inactivity and no resupply? but damn, it even still smelled good), didn't really register as anything more than part of John's bliss.

Until the hand with the cloth was suddenly grasping in an intimate location. And then the cloth was dropped down between John's feet, thus negating anything that could remotely be construed as being part of the whole doctoring/nursemaid thing.

Pure shock had John's knees buckling. He needed to reach forward (thank god he had the presence of mind to do that with his uninjured wrist) for one of the shower heads to keep from landing on his ass. Although at the same time Rodney was bringing his other hand from John's shoulder to around his chest to help steady him.

Like that was really possible since the whole weak-in-the-knees was McKay's fault in the first place.

John knew he was blushing. But his skin had already begun to turn red from the heat of the spray and so he figured he could brazen it out. "Don't flatter yourself, McKay. I'd challenge even Bates to stay unaffected were he in the same situation."

"Are you making comparisons between your manhood or his homophobia?" McKay chuckled right at John's ear.

"Maybe we should be talking about yours?" And John was proud that his voice didn't crack this time either.

To allow this was wrong on too many levels, but he could almost convince himself that his cock was simply conditioned to respond to the water from the shower, that its interest in being held had nothing to do with McKay.

_Almost._

"Really, McKay, am I just supposed to be able to ignore your hand --"

"If you can ignore this, John, then you military types really _are_ a different species of human." If it was possible, McKay -- no, this was definitely _Rodney_ (whose own cock seemed pretty interested in this too), who moved even closer. Until his mouth was practically forming the words directly against the skin of John's neck right below and a little behind his ear.

"Maybe you're just not doing it right," which, of course, was completely contradicted by the 'zero to sixty in five' firming of his erection and the little shiver he couldn't control from the feel of Rodney's breath trying to stir up the hair that the shower was beating down. His neck behind his ear had always been a hot spot.

"Pretty hard to get this wrong," with another chuckle and, yeah, it was just a form of masturbation, albeit for someone else. Rodney was obviously quite experienced, which deserved some sort of comment about lack of partners and maybe it wasn't just Atlantean devices he played with in his lab. But John doubted Rodney would do – oh god, _that_ \-- for himself; that he couldn't manage to stay moving this slow on his own cock, and where in God's name did he learn --

"Oh, oh, Rodneeeey…"

"One of these days you'll believe me when I say I can do almost _any_ thing, Major --"

"Fuck!" John knew that Rodney was waiting for him to beg, would just keep going with this tantalizing, torturous pace if John didn't do-- say something more. At another time, John might be willing to see who could out-last the other, but he was dying here, was already trembling and on the edge. It had been long enough since he'd had a partner that he _might_ have begged –

Had it been anyone other than Rodney Coyote McKay, _Super_ -genius.

"Jacking off while watching yourself in a mirror doesn't make you an expert in gay sex, McKay," John ground out because he wouldn't _need_ to beg if he could just get Rodney agitated enough.

"Oh, and you're the great expert instead?" Rodney goaded back. "Captain Han Crichton Kirk? Whose own concept of gay sex is showing off in front of your buddies in the locker room, or performing in a circle jerk? Trust me, _John_ , I have plenty of knowledge _and_ experience. Besides, are you really sure you should be insulting the guy with his hand around your penis?"

Busted. But whereas with someone else, John might have gotten what he needed out of the attempt anyway, instead of squeezing to emphasize his control and thus given John that last little pressure he needed, Rodney simply let go.

At least it was only with the hand that was not pretty much the only thing holding John upright right now.

Before John could do anything other than let a gasp escape, however, Rodney returned his hand to that slow, maddening, _wonderful_ friction.

"Just let go, John," which was not what John was expecting to hear next. Nor the "imagine whatever you need to and accept this as comfort being offered. Something that needs be nothing more. Let yourself relax, let yourself feel and don't worry about the Air Force or Elizabeth and your command, about what someone else might say. There is nothing here but ease, a little stress release, a way to unwind so that when you sleep you won't be replaying everything that happened today, or what might be needed from you tomorrow…"

Rodney's words were hypnotic, a whisper that John could feel in the touch of Rodney's all-too-knowing and talented fingers as well as the breaths and lips that formed them. Rodney's words were for them both, a way to hide from what was really being expressed. But John had begun learning how to interpret and understand all of Rodney McKay's forms of communication. While he appreciated the excuse Rodney was trying to give him, John already had to lie too much and too often about his emotions -- and his sexuality. Something he no longer wanted to do with this man.

"Help me sit down, Rodney," and even as he asked, John _thought_. Sure enough, a shelf about the right height slid out from the wall beside them. He had spent weeks taking showers while sitting the first time he'd blown out his knee and figured the Ancients hadn't missed this trick either, since they seemed to have covered for just about everything else.

Rodney let out a little exclamation of surprise and stumbled back onto the seat as John nudged him over. John thought of being clever, of taking advantage -- that somehow he could allow Rodney to guide him down and that he could magically impale himself on Rodney's cock. But even if the athletics weren't currently beyond him, it had also been almost two years since John had been in his last gay relationship. Even with some form of lube, penetration wasn't going to work without some effort on both their parts.

"Where did you find the soap?" John asked instead, still standing but half turning with a hand out against the wall holding the shelf since his main support was now sitting before him, naked, wet and _interested_. Such a sight had him finishing his turn despite the stress this put on his knee, so that he might lean down to lick and kiss the growing expression of surprise right off of Rodney's face.

 

The kiss turned into a duel just as every other interaction between them seemed to become; the two of them competing to see who could twine their tongue the deepest. Groping came next, and somehow one of them commanded the shower spray into nothing more than a warm, falling mist. John ended up in Rodney's lap, with his legs curving around Rodney's hips, yet also still supported by the shelf that in this direction was long enough that he could have stretched out full body should Rodney scoot back instead of staying at the edge.

An idea for another time.

Now, however, John was much more interested in participating instead of simply reacting. He wanted to make sure that Rodney realized this wasn't just comfort being taken, that he appreciated that it was _Rodney_ who had offered.

That it wasn't even just sex.

John carefully draped his broken wrist over Rodney's shoulder to eliminate any space between their bodies except for where he snaked his good hand around midway up both their cocks. After something that might have been a protest from Rodney couldn't make it past John's pressing lips, Rodney insinuated his own hand between them until his fingers were wrapped around the roots of their cocks. He was letting John control the top action, the speed and force, yet Rodney was the one manipulating the intensity and the timing of their rise to the edge. In this manner neither of them were ceding nor taking complete control, and John could only imagine what this might indicate when it came to other forms of sex together.

Rodney being Rodney, however, he couldn't just let the equilibrium reach its natural conclusion. Taking advantage of John being the one atop, as he claimed John's mouth in a brutal, bruising, breath-stealing mashing of their lips, Rodney also slid his other hand down to cup it under John's ass and then pushed a soapy finger inside.

John squirmed, but the burn wasn't anywhere nearly as painful as the pressure he needed to exert against both damaged wrist and knee to keep his position in Rodney's lap now that he didn't really have help in holding himself up. In seconds even that pain didn't matter though, as Rodney proved his boasts and his talent both by finding and fingering John's prostate. John barely had the presence of mind to keep up the rhythm between them. After only a few of seconds more, John needed to break from Rodney's kissing so that he could breathe (and moan), and then Rodney also began pumping with both his hands, within and without --

John found himself flying over the edge, awash in the warmth of long-buried emotions; in knowing that he wasn't feeling them alone when Rodney sighed instead of screamed his own release into John's neck along with something that could have been John's name.

It had been too long, however, and John had already been dead on his feet before Rodney had led them here. He knew he'd be asleep soon (knew too, that Rodney had been right in that he wouldn't be dreaming about the day's events after this -- or any of his regular nightmares in whatever was left of the night), but he didn't want to leave Rodney having to try and carry all of his weight. Nor did John want to fall asleep in the shower, pleasant as it all still felt at the moment.

He rested a few seconds against the warmth and comfort of Rodney's body then reluctantly shifted to encourage Rodney to slip his finger free. Too long, and so there was some relief as well as regret, nor could John quite keep the groan from slipping out, although it turned instantly into a yelp when his world tilted so that Rodney could reclaim the wash cloth from the floor. He just held on as he was righted again, and then as he was cleaned up first.

"Can you hold onto me as I slip us off of this shelf and back to our feet?"

John nodded into Rodney's shoulder and shifted to wrap his good leg and arm tightly around Rodney's waist and chest. The full return of gravity was just going to kill his knee, but John could think of no better way to extract himself and stand, and at least like this he could stay tucked against Rodney's nicely accommodating body that, maybe, _was_ a bit god-like. Assuming he believed in Buddha, of course.

"Oh, that's nice, you bastard," Rodney grumbled before leaning in and biting against John's collar bone in a gesture that was distracting as well as retaliatory; John had apparently said that last bit about Rodney and Buddha aloud.

John's field of reference shifted again, backward, downward and, yeah, he'd been dead right about the knee, although he hadn't properly judged the extent of the pain. For a few seconds he was panting his way through it, holding on with what little strength he could muster -- and was beginning to rethink the idea about just sleeping here.

But Rodney was nothing if not tenacious, as well as being surprisingly strong for someone who had spent most of his life in labs. John wasn't sure which of them got the water off and the dryers going, although he knew the _control_ was all Rodney's, given the initial strength of the blowers and how quickly they were tempered and increasing their heat output while John was still just cursing at them.

Another slot opened instead of a doorway leading them to the expected medical facility, but John's impatience and confusion were quickly answered in seeing several sets of what looked distressingly like the scrubs Carson's people dispensed, although colored the ubiquitous aqua instead of what Elizabeth insisted was salmon and everyone else called pink. Leaving John leaning against the wall and the not yet retracted shelf, Rodney quickly grabbed up a couple of pairs that looked like they'd fit.

"They might not be the most comfortable to wear, considering I'd be surprised if they've ever been exposed to even a picture of a natural fiber to have lasted this long, but they should hold us over until I can reclaim our real clothes back from the dressing room. Since we've taken this long, one of Carson's folks or someone else might be waiting for us in the Med Bay," Rodney explained further.

John nodded and had a moment's wonder if everything they had just done had been observed or at least overheard -- maybe even recorded since they were just off of the Control room and that the city was in an abbreviated form of lockdown. He debated for even less time as to whether he should express this concern to Rodney. They could deal with the consequences later, were there any, and John figured they already had enough things to worry about come the future -- about their future. Nor was he inclined to offer anything more to kill the mood than his current weakness and reliance on Rodney rather than being able to offer anything back

"Sorry, Rodney, but if we don't get me moving, I'm not going to make it," he apologized after letting Rodney help him into the scrub bottoms but waiving off the top. Rodney nodded in return and tucked both tops under his arms and then levered John back up onto his feet and into Rodney's arms.

Not that it had been particularly uncomfortable before, but somehow it felt as if they fit together better now, that he was being held closer and more carefully. Maybe it was just the latter brought about by a change in Rodney, or maybe it was because of a change on John's own part; an acknowledgement and acceptance of what had been between them for some time now.

Because Rodney had always been careful and supportive.

"Thank you, Rodney," he kissed the other with his own whisper of lips and breath and touch -- and for an abundant wealth of reasons.

Best. Shower. Ever.

\--finis--


End file.
